Snow

It's getting cold now,
and the trembling trees know it.

They cling onto their leaves,
but it won't be long before they too have to go.
The struggling sighs against icy winds have died,
and only faint whispers echo in the valley below.

It's getting late now,
and the flocking crows know it.

The panicked beating of desperate wings
a warning on the forest floor;
Streaks of pink shine through the empty sky
as the shivering sun crawls back into the ground.

We're getting lost now,
And my stumbling feet know it.

The moonless night and the misty woods slow us,
but the crickets don't pierce your ears and you show it.
I stagger through cracks, snapping jagged twigs back,
Fall mindless on the sullen earth,
And begin to dig.